Prologue
by Persephone999
Summary: A look into the lives of the parents of some of our favourite characters.


This was just an idea that I had the other day. Think I'll just see where it goes.

Disclaimer: I own only OCs.

Prologue

Chapter 10

"Has the jury reached a verdict on which you are all agreed?"  
>"We have, your honour,"<p>

In the dock a few feet away, a young man rose. To Gilbert, he looked smarter than he probably had in his life- the suit was tailored to perfection, no hair was out of place, and the defendant's face was smoother than the stones on the pier, washed smooth by tempests.

"On the sole count of murder, do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?"

Taking a deep breath, Gilbert sat straight, his uniform suddenly stuffy and uncomfortable. He'd known John from the moment he was old enough to run around the streets with plasters on both knees. He'd had his first pint with John. He'd met his wife on a night out with John. John had, at one point, been his hero. And now they stood mere metres away and on opposite sides of the law- the convict and the officer. Shaking his head, he glanced down to his pocket and thought of the letter inside. In his mind's eye, he imagined John furrowing his brow as he wrote the note, pressing his pen down so hard he nearly tore through the papet, chucking down his pen and swearing when he couldn't remember a spelling. Would Roxy take as much trouble with the reading of it?

It wouldn't come to that, he told himself. John would be able to tell Roxy face to face, without even glass to seperate them. He had a good defense, after all. Crimes of passion happened all the time.

Bring his fist up and chewing his knuckles, Gilbert watched as the main juror(a portly man in his fifties) hold up a piece of paper. This was the moment. The was the X on the map. This was the second that would send John to freedom; or to prison. Finally, painfully, the verdict was spoke.

"Guilty,"

Gilbert turned his head as his old friend was carried off, swearing at the judge and shouting like a madman as if it would make any difference. How the hell had this happened? He thought of his little boy at home. His Norton. Would he end up like that one day? In jail? Or worse? He shook the ugly thought from his head and stood up, his limbs stiff as though his uniform had been ironed onto his body. As he left the courtroom, the rain outside berated him, clattering criticism; You could have made him confess and got a lighter sentence. You could have given him the benefit of the doubt. You could have forgot to check the CCTV. Shaking his head again, he watched the drops splash, fat, tear-shaped against the pavement.

"They, uh... said he's guilty," At this, the young woman sitting on a bench just outside the door stood and turned to face him, pulling her coat further around her form.  
>"Good," Nodding, he glanced at her wrist an imagined a bruise below her sleeve. She'd got her makeup on a little heavy today, too, come to think of it. The blusher did nothing to bring colour back to her face- if nothing else, she looked worse for her trouble. Older. Harder.<br>"He, uh..." Gilbert filled the quiet with a cough. "He said will you visit him?" Tiliting her cigarette in a quick movement to flick the ash from the end, she brought it back to her mouth and sucked it for a moment, then swallowed and blew the smoke out in a haze that distorted her expression. "Would you?" she asked quietly, her brows slightly raised as she looked back at him, the only spark about her glowing at the end of the cigarette. Silent, she watched his eyes drop to the pavement. "Thought not," She lifted the cigarette to aim and chucked it at the bin like a dart, missing by a few inches.  
>"He told me to give you this," He held the letter out like an olive branch. "Just in case, you know,"<br>"Just in case," she repeated. What a weird way to say it. Just in case would imply that a guilty verdict had been unlikely. Maybe Gilbert had wanted to believe it was. Taking the letter, she stared at him for a moment and waited for him to speak.  
>"I better, um..." He shuffled towards the door.<br>"Yeah. Johnny'll want his dinner," Without another word, she nodded and trudged off, stepping on the discarded cigarette butt as she yanked the zip of her coat up to protect herself from the full force of the rain.

Johnny was behaving himself today, for once; ate his dinner, did his reading, put himself to bed the first time she asked him. Dropping her coat on a chair, she strode over to his bedroom door and closed it, pausing for a minute to watch him sleep soundly. Poor little guy hadn't had a good sleep for a while. Neither had she, actually. Money worries... Man worries.

Perhaps things would get better now she had the new job. Moira had agreed to babysit, thank God. Dropping onto the sofa, she ran her finger under the seal of the envelope. She'd have to read whatever he'd put sooner or later. In any case, it was probably a good idea to keep it in case he mentioned Johnny- the kid would have to know his dad loved him some way or another. Evidently, he wouldn't be able to hear it face to face.

Roxy,

I can't believe I'm doing this. Listen, I'm keepin this short. I'm sorry. I got mad. I love you, babe, you know I love you, but you can't blame me for losin it. All I could think about was you an Mickey and...

She chucked the letter down. Count on John. Did he really think Mickey deserved to die over a fling half a milion years ago? Grabbing the box on the table, she pulled the lid open and grabbed a cigarette, holding it between her lips while she moved the ashtray closer to her and fumbled for a lighter. Finding one, she held the flame up to the end of the cigarette, looking down at the table as she waited for it to light up. Her eyes caught the letter.

"But all I could about was you and Mickey". He used that like a cure-all in every argument. Every. Fucking. One. Funny, that one screw-up of hers could be used to counter all of his, she couldn't help thinking as she inhaled. And was the fucking rain ever going to stop? Before she could think about it, her left hand shot out, crumpled the piece of paper and dropped it in the ashtray. Plucking the cigarette from her lips like a weed between the pavement cracks, she flicked the ash from the end onto the white paper and watched the flames grow fat on the tenderly written words. 


End file.
